


Котя-котя, коток

by WahlBuilder



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Embedded Images, Gen, Intersex Character, Intersex Victor Creed, Polyamory, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 04:59:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10326101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Kurt has a quiet, lazy day and asks some questions about Victor's faith.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Romantic relationships are only mentioned here. They are: Logan/Scott Summers/Kurt Wagner, and Victor Creed/Logan.  
> The title is from a traditional Russian lullaby, translates as "Kitty, kitty, kitty-cat".

He had made a final mistake after a long day and traversed straight into the big bedroom—it had drained all his energy and resulted in him tossing and turning all night. Only by the morning when birds had started chirping had he finally fallen asleep. Kurt reached to the bedside table for Logan’s phone—and realized that he wouldn't find it there.

There were more reasons why he hadn’t slept well, other than being exhausted.

Of course, he remembered. Logan had taken Laura to visit her half-brothers, and Scott had taken Tillie to the family gathering of the Summers’.

Nobody to wraps his arms, legs, and tail about, nobody to grumble about it in the morning.

There was another thing missing. It was Saturday, and Saturday meant a lot of things. No classes, firstly; Kurt didn’t think he could have handled classes right now, though for the X-Men operatives who also were teachers moving a meeting with students was a norm.

Secondly, for many students and teachers alike it was a day of contemplation of one’s actions and faith, of celebration and leisure.

It was also the day of week when Logan and Victor read to children. It was a spontaneous book club: sometimes everyone read the same book then they discussed it on Saturday, other times Logan and Victor read something aloud. Victor had a talent for dramatic reading. Kurt was used to waking up on Saturday to their light-hearted bickering, questions from kids and teens, from occasional bursts of laughter. The green clearing in front of the house was a good place for a meeting like this, and if the ground was cold, they would move it to the porch or into the living room.

Once a tiny house with only two rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom—a former gatekeeper house or something of the sort,—it had grown throughout the years, the patchwork of additions marking milestones in lives of Logan and his family.

With sour thoughts Kurt groaned and hauled himself from under the stuffy blankets, telling himself he had to make a breakfast and try to fight the headache by doing something useful. A quick shower didn’t elevate the dull ache, but hardened his resolve to fight laziness. He put on his old worn jeans, then, after some contemplation and arguing with guilt, he threw one of Logan’s flannel shirts onto his shoulders, the red and white one that Scott, too, liked to “borrow”. It smelled like wood and books and Logan’s icy aftershave.

He went downstairs, trying to recall what they had in the fridge that he could quickly prepare.

There was a bowl waiting on the kitchen counter-top.

Kurt lifted the lid. The bowl was filled with cold oatmeal porridge (no milk), with cuts of apple and dry cranberries. There was a piece of paper pinned by the bowl. Kurt turned it over and laughed.

Kurt took the note and moved it to the door of the fridge, securing it with a Batman logo magnet between Tillie’s drawing of her family (with “RAWR!” scrawled over the disheveled stick figure that was Logan) and Laura’s A+ German class essay. He found the fruit salad—kiwi fruit, bananas, and oranges—but left it for now; he microwaved his porridge, took a spoon, and went outside.

A great figure was seated on the edge of the porch. Long golden hair was held in a lazy bun. A thin cotton shirt didn’t at all obscure the shifting of muscles of the broad back. The shirt’s sleeves were neatly rolled up.

Kurt leaned on the doorframe, taking the first spoonful of the porridge. It was unsweetened, but the berries and apples gave it the much needed flavor. “Why don’t you add at least a pinch of sugar to the porridge?” Kurt wondered aloud, padded to the edge and sat down, dangling his legs.

Victor was warm and big beside him. Victor was one of the most massive men Kurt knew, he could occupy a lot of space like a sunbathing liquid cat—or could neatly fit into the smallest of spaces like a cat ready to pounce on its prey. Logan called it “cat physics”.

“Too much sugar is bad for you, kitten.”

If you listened to Victor, all sentient beings fit into three categories: kittens, pups, and a certain runt.

Sunlight made the fine hairs on Victor’s bare arms visible. His hands were working on a piece of white bone roughly the size of Kurt’s palm, with something like an over-sized thick needle. When he angled the bone a certain way, Kurt could make out the design.

He’d seen it before. “Vic? Is this…” He searched his memory for the name. “Cer-nunnos? The Horned God? I’ve seen a wooden carving in your room.”

Victor stopped, wiped dust off the bone and turned the piece in his hands as if looking at it for the first time. “No, kitten. Not exactly.”

Embracing and respecting differences of other people was the cornerstone of Professor Xavier’s works and philosophy, and Kurt had embraced it with joy and gratefulness, and he had gotten used to the thought that asking questions when you didn’t know something was nothing to be ashamed of. But sometimes he felt uncomfortable asking questions about one’s beliefs and faith.

The needle was moving, adding swirls to the pattern surrounding the antlered figure.

“It’s Life,” continued Victor. “And Death. It’s the Forest and the Hunt. The spirit of all that is, and was, and will be.” The capital letters were clear in his speech. “I cannot explain. I’m not a Wiccan, kitten, you see, though you could definitely call me a Modern Pagan. It is that,” he paused and wiped the piece again, “no existing system felt _right_. And this, this is what feels right. But then, only a handful of people would understand my experiences.”

Victor lifted the piece under the sun, and light caught in the lines. The spirit had long claws. Some quirk of nature made a faint texture of the bone shape wing-like outlines behind the spirit.

“Like when you and Logan go for a hunt?” Kurt asked, mesmerized by the carving.

Once in a while both Victor and Logan would become restless, exchanging glances, tasting the air; the smell of aftershave would give way to the heavy, gutting scent of musk. And then they would disappear—and return only a few nights later, covered in blood, mud, grass, reeking of sex and death, Victor’s braids a mess of knots. Victor would complain about the taste of blood in his mouth, Logan would be quiet but his gaze would make Kurt’s tail coil.

Taking a shower would be a _very_ interesting procedure.

Kurt yelped at the sudden pinch of his tail-tip, and the bowl fell out of his hands but was saved by Victor. Kurt moved away from him and curled in embarrassment. “Vic!” Victor’s quiet rumbling chuckles were not helping.

“Thinking about the Hunt, eh, kitten? Want to be our prey the next time?”

Kurt yanked his tail out of Vic’s hand and hugged it, his face heating up. “No!”

Victor’s smile was showing his fangs. “Just ask, and we’ll take you with us.” The golden eyes looked at the piece of bone again. “And even if we take you, you won’t feel the Hunt like we do. This spirit is not a god or a goddess, and frankly, I find this binary division strange. I don’t worship this spirit, it is merely a metaphor, an abstraction to channel my understanding of life into. And like you cannot explain to anyone what feeling the presence of God means, so I cannot explain what this feels to me.”

Kurt pondered on it, then nodded. And took his bowl from Victor.

Victor carved a few lines onto the spirit’s tail, and narrowed his eyes. “But then again,” he added in a distracted voice, “I gave birth to two kits and can father some, and that is not an experience I can share with that many people either or explain it to anyone else. Eat your porridge, kitten, or I’ll pinch your tail again.”

Kurt quickly sat on his tail, just in case, and finished his porridge in a few more spoonfuls. Cranberries were tangy on his tongue.

“Good kitten,” Victor purred, and it felt like being petted.

Kurt always felt like a—like a kitten, all right—near Victor. “Vic, what are we going to—” he started, putting the bowl aside when a great weight landed on his lap.

Victor stretched and yawned, showing a mouthful of terrifying teeth and fangs, tugged the tie off his hair, letting his mane fall free. Then seemed to become even heavier than usual.

Cat physics.

Kurt frowned, pulled his tail from under himself, and poked Victor in the ribs with the tip—and had his tail caught, but not pinched this time.

“A nap, kitten. We’ll be having a nap.”

Kurt tried to tug his tail free, but Victor held it firmly, and Kurt gave up. He leaned sideways on the banister, and then, because Victor’s golden mane looked silky and irresistible, Kurt tangled his fingers in it. “We’re being lazy today, Vic?”

“M-hm…” Victor started purring—who knew how he was doing it?—and Kurt thought he was doing it on purpose. It worked like a sleeping spell, and Kurt felt enveloped in warm golden light.

The spirit of Life and Death was swaying their long tail and breathing deeply in their sleep.


End file.
